The broken self

And I look around and this is what I'm left with, a broken self. Life was so easy until it was not. And I'm no longer ashamed, and I don't want to hide it. Living, breathing, waking up every single day hurts. And I'm broken. I don't want to go to sleep but I don't want to wake up. I fear my dreams like I fear reality. The past haunts me but the future holds no hope. The present is a constant reminder of who I'm not and I could I've been, of all the work and effort, all the dreams and expectations, all of them gone to hell. Like everything else in my life this madness made it or destroyed it. And I'm sitting, having achieved nothing but a decent party record, hoping I had more. Not a penny to my name, unless I die, no achievements, no love, no legacy. And I'm sitting here all alone asking old lovers to be my friends for a night, because my friends are no where to be found. Because at the end of the day, I'm all alone, just the wine and the cigarettes, my faithful companions.

And this whole emptiness, this inner sadness that was tore out of me with the promise of something else just proves I'm incomplete, I'll forever be. They were all right, all of them, I was made for loving but not for love.  I was too much but never good enough. My self, constantly fragmented, trying to find itself, in this utter darkness. It's not fair. Friends and lovers, all run. I'm alone, so alone. But to this world I came broken, without air, in a rush. And so I shall live my life as such, broken, without air, in a rush. Because I know nothing else, because my worth is not worth enough. But I shall live, because the alternative hurts too much.